Short Story - continued

I’m sorry Gramps, it just reminded me so much of the good old days. 

You remember don’t you?  Sitting on the front porch on that old squeaky glider, rust creeping over the edges of its white, flaking paint, just watching the sky gust and the cows graze.  We each had a glass of lemonade in our left hand and a cigar balancing between our right index finger and thumb, mine thin and yours thick.  Mama always said you were a bit of a hard ass, never letting anyone break through you and always having something spiteful to say.  But I never had much trouble speaking to your soul and in turn, you speaking to mine.  We had a way of having deep conversations without saying a single word.

You remember, don’t you?

I never understood why you had so many orange, cylindrical Rx bottles lining your bedroom windowsill.  I never understood why there were so many when you were taking them and I especially never understood them after you stopped.  You told everyone that you were doing just fine and that the meds were really helping this time, even though everyone could clearly see that they were not.  I don’t know why you didn’t just throw the bottles away.  At least you wouldn’t have to be reminded every morning of how quickly your own death was approaching with every pill that remained in that bottle a day too long, day after day.  I wouldn’t have blamed you.

I still don’t blame you for what happened.

Grama does, but I don’t.

And how can anyone even blame her? She never saw it coming, that darling thing.  What was inevitable to everyone else was utter shock to her, a woman who, for 65 years had lived in the same house with the man she loved so dearly since she had met him.  We all dreaded that day, knowing it was coming, yet hoping it wouldn’t.  Everyone claimed that they dreaded it because, of course, it would mean the end of you in our lives, but really, I think that everyone was just so worried about Gram.  I tried telling her that you were getting old and that sometimes people just have to leave us, even if it’s too soon and even when we aren’t finished learning about who they are and telling them about ourselves.  But she just sat there and chuckled lightly to herself and told me that you would never do that because you promised you would be with her forever, in sickness and in health, in life and in death, and that meant that if you were going, then so was she.

I didn’t know how to take that because quite honestly, if I was with the man of my dreams for 65 years, I would have said the same thing.

That rusty glider is still on your front porch in case you were wondering.  Grama let us get rid of everything in the house that we deemed clutter except that.  She practically lived on that thing after you went.  To be honest, I think she might have spent a few nights out there with the blanket you gave her on your first wedding anniversary and the picture you sent her while you were off fighting for our freedom.  Your passing didn't hurt as much as her suffering hurt me after you went.

You were ready, she wasn't.

Gramps, what made you want to stay as long as you did?  Was it just the familiarity of everything?  Was it the people? Was it really Grama?  Everyone says that it was her, and of course I want to believe that... but something tells me there was something else rooting you here.  I know how deeply you loved Grama, I never doubted that.  I saw the way you looked at her every time she placed your dinner in front of you like she had the last 65 years.  You looked at her like you had never seen anything more beautiful in your life.  Every time you saw her, it was like your blind, creaky eyes had just been flung wide open and there in front of you was the most magnificent creation that God could have ever conjured up.

I want someone to look at me like that someday.

Mama keeps ignoring the fact that both of you are gone now.  Once Grama realized that your picture was never going to hold her and your blanket would always grow colder no matter how long she left it by the fire, she couldn't hold on anymore.  She had nothing keeping her here as much as I would love to believe that her children were enough, they weren't.  And I don't think they are hurt by that.  They knew that you had invaded her heart long ago and had swelled inside every nook and cranny in her massive heart.  They knew that they could never equal you, and for some reason unbeknownst to me, they were okay with that.  I think it was because her love for you was so pure.  It was so untainted and real.  I didn't know you two for even a quarter of the time you knew each other and yet that purity permeated my soul.  Is she with you now?

I can't imagine any other place she could possibly be.  Her soul wouldn't allow for anything otherwise.

Mama keeps trying to tell me that we just need to look for signs you and Grama left behind to tell us a message or some kind of story.  I have no idea what she is talking about.  I think it's her way of denying that there is no getting you two back.  She can't accept that fact that you already had your last words.  I feel bad for her, I really do.

But if only she would let herself grieve...

Collette is 6 now.  She doesn't remember you but I tell her stories all the time.  All she knows about you is that you were a hero and you were brave and you loved so fiercely that it almost hurt.  She knows that you were charming and handsome and that you knew how to herd cattle and till the fields. She knows that you had a stout chest and strong hands, yet they always felt soft patting our little heads.  She knows that you loved her.  I sing her the lullaby you sang to her when she was first born, even as you were withering away inside.

Your voice still echoes in my mind.  It seems to float along every gust of wind and every chirp of the birds.

Gramps, what's it like where you are?  I only ask because I like to be prepared before I meet someone I haven't seen in awhile.  I see you in the meadows and I see you in the dirt.  I know I'll see you in the stars eventually.

My journey isn't over yet, but when it is, I want people to talk about me the way I can't help but talk about you.  I'm sitting on that rusty glider now, glass of lemonade in my right hand as usual.  I see the cows and the pastures and the dust rolls along the creaky floorboards of that age old porch.  Everythingg seems almost normal.  Except instead of a thin cigar, this time I'm smoking a fat one and my index finger and thumb are maneuvering themselves to look just like yours did on those breezy, beautiful nights, watching time pass over the meadows and mosquitoes nip at our skin.

Not much has changed, really.